


Sweet songs in many voices

by Alex_Quine



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 09:05:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8395717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alex_Quine/pseuds/Alex_Quine
Summary: The quest that Prince Imrahil sends the Lord Steward on, is one that yields a surprise that makes Boromir reconsider his past.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Morgyn Leri (morgynleri)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgynleri/gifts).



It was known that Prince Imrahil was failing; the old warrior slept now, wrapped in furs and seated at a window with a view of the Bay, more than he carried on the King’s business in Dol Amroth. The King was not unduly concerned, knowing well that Beregond and the Lord Steward would see that all was done well and along with the Healers, Elessar had endeavoured to ease the old man’s twilight days. 

Celond was of the opinion that with care Imrahil would see another Winter yet, the Númenórean blood sustaining his spirit against his weakening flesh, but despite the Healer’s confident pronouncements, Aragorn could see that there was something troubling Imrahil, draining his energy and disturbing the calm that should have surrounded him in a land more at peace than he had ever known it through a long life. Nevertheless, there were moments when Imrahil would show something of his old clarity and brisk command, so that Aragorn was not surprised when a messenger had arrived from Dol Amroth with a summons to attend him. What did take him a-back slightly was that it was Boromir that Imrahil had asked to come to him. Uncle and nephew had always enjoyed a warm understanding, but of late, Imrahil had declared that the King’s Steward was too busy to be disturbed with any small matters that the ever reliable Beregond could not deal with. Perhaps, thought Aragorn, he feels that his end is near and wishes to speak with Boromir, but if Boromir, why not his brother?

“I have brewed up something that should ease any aches and pains he is suffering,” he said, handing over a tall flask, wrapped carefully in lambs-wool, to be added to Boromir’s bulging saddle bags. 

They were standing in the stable-yard and Boromir was beginning to wonder whether he might want another packhorse, between the packages and bundles that had come from the Queen and the Healers and this latest gift.

“Aye, well, we’ll see,” he grunted, “I’ll send word if more is needed.”

“Is the boy coming to us?” Aragorn could see Arin deep in conversation with young Donal, the two of them busily threading the leather laces fastening the cover over a pannier that contained a selection of the best that the palace wine cellars could offer. Boromir glanced over his shoulder and then grinned wryly at his King.

“Nay, Sire” he said, “my lady, the Queen, thought that he was too old for the nursery and about time he was man of the Steward’s House, so Donal is come to us...and my house-steward,” he added, “will make sure they attend to the school at the proper hour.”

It was a fine morning, with light mist gathered in the valleys and the hills around on fire with trees whose leaves were turned to scarlet and gold. He had taken no more than a small patrol of his guard and they made good time, so that Boromir had the chance to view Dol Amroth as he went and approve the work that Imrahil and Beregond had done to improve this main road between the cities.

He had intended to complement the men on their efforts that evening at table but Imrahil had dismissed Beregond and the rest of his court summarily before Boromir had the chance to say aught, and as the last of the company bowed themselves out of the great hall, he had obeyed Imrahil’s urgent gestures and brought their chairs together before the great fire. It was clear that the old man was feeling cold, despite the blaze of logs and Boromir quietly fetched a wrap to spread over his uncle’s knees.

“You may tell the King that his potion tastes of old socks.” He was plucking idly at the coverlet and Boromir watched the knarled, mottled, hands that had once swung a blade for Gondor and its King with a vengeance. When the hands suddenly stilled, Boromir glanced up and was caught in a keen gaze that brought that great warrior back before him now.

“You may tell Elessar that,” Imrahil said clearly, “for you are his Man in all things. This I know, have always known and I think that he has chosen well, ‘Mir. You are no more the young man your Father would have shaped to good and ill and your life has taken a path that Denethor could not have imagined. I know you, brahmir, through my sister’s blood and other things...” His voice trailed away for a moment as Boromir’s heart beat fast, wondering what would come next, and then he glanced across at Boromir with a sly smile. 

“Did I ever tell you,” he said, “that Gwaihir visits with me from time-to-time?”

“No, uncle,” Boromir answered dryly, “you did not.”

Now Imrahil had fallen silent and Boromir let the old man be, whilst the logs in the grate snapped and soughed into white ash.

“I am tired, Boromir, and my song has barely a last chorus to run, but I know my duty to Gondor and Arnor and there must be a Prince in Dol Amroth, my boys are too young for such a burden...”

“Uncle,” Boromir began but got no further before Imrahil interrupted him.

“I want you to find Elphir.”

If Imrahil had offered him the principality there and then, Boromir could not have been more surprised and he sat for a moment unsure of what to say. He did not think that he had heard his eldest cousin’s name uttered once in a dozen years. He had heard, had believed without question to this moment that Elphir had died on a hunting trip, an unlucky fall from a horse brought down by a mountain lion. He had been mourned across the Two Kingdoms.

“He is alive, I know it in these aching bones; alive and I drove him from his home.”

Boromir became conscious that he was gripping the arms of his chair to keep him anchored whilst this bewildering tale unfolded before him and he dearly wished that Elessar was at his side at this moment with wise council. 

“Perhaps,” Imrahil added softly, “it was the fault of sad times that neither Denethor nor I could see what was before us, accept what was not our way. We are well served now. My brother-in-law never lived to see his sons in triumph about their King. Well if it is to be allowed to me, I would try to undo some of the harm I have caused and bring Dol Amroth back her rightful Prince.”

Now he looked directly into Boromir’s face again but his tone, once strident, was quiet and dignified. “Will you search for him?” he asked.

Boromir drew in a deep breath, saying, “Where should I look, Uncle?” 

“Along the shore, ‘Mir, go along the shore, past Edhellond. Gwaihir watched him ride away in a cold dawn and I have been cold ever since.” He was gripping Boromir’s wrist and there was some strength yet in the old man’s grip. Then he released Boromir’s arm and stroked the back of his hand gently, saying, “I have sent messengers before, good men, but none of them returned. I find it hard to believe that my boy would have killed them, simply for bringing a message...or perhaps they are still searching...” Imrahil’s voice trailed off and the men sat together in silence for a few minutes, until they were interrupted by a shower of sparks as the last log in the grate split and sank into a heap of glowing ash.

Boromir had called up the servants then and the old man had been escorted to his chamber, but Boromir had sat before the dying embers of the great fire and thought long of the boy currently occupying his chair in the Steward’s House. He would pen a note for his King in the morning. Whatever should befall him, he knew that Arin would be cared for, loved, but at the same time he would strive to return to them, to try to be a better, a wiser, father than his own had been. 

He had set out the next day with two of his guard and the packhorse now loaded with all manner of provisions that Imrahil had insisted they take with them. The old man had stood in the stable-yard and barked instructions to the grooms and Boromir suspected that this bustle was intended to prevent him from asking, in a quiet moment, why Elphir had left that cold morning. Certainly, on the only occasion when he had begun to ask, Imrahil had waved the question away and called loudly for Beregond to attend to some small thing. It was only once they were mounted and about to leave that he shuffled forward, laying a hand on Boromir’s knee and peered up into his face.

“Tell him,” he said quietly, “that there is music again in Edhellond...and there are sweet songs in many voices.”

It was as they were unloading the horses from the ferry boat that Boromir realised that Imrahil had been telling the plain truth, that the old elven port was come quietly alive and Dol Amroth had re-opened the school of music which had been famous across Gondor before Sauron’s rise had silenced it. The buildings at the harbour were no more than piles of tumbled and weathered marble, but the road was smooth and clear of weeds and as they led their horses up the path towards the ruins of the town, he could hear the sound of harps, singly and in groups, coming from every shell of a house. 

Boromir knew that Imrahil did not wish for the business to be gossiped about and so, if asked, he was tasked by his King to make enquiries about the Prince’s heralds who had travelled this way and then never returned. Certainly, several of the folk he questioned remembered one or another of the messengers. They had been well known, well liked, and people readily pointed out the path that all had taken along the coast and wished him well on his quest.

The next few days saw the little party making its way steadily along a track which almost disappeared in some places, the flagstones worn away or covered over with lichens or half buried in tangles of gorse and broom. The coastline was jagged, with narrow inlets cut into rocky headlands and at each they must ride inland until they could find a place to cross. The sea would rush up the channels behind them and crash against the cliff face. This was no kind of place to land a fishing boat and the scrub heath-land at the cliff-top looked sour and unkempt, so that Boromir was not wholly surprised that they had not seen a single dwelling, nor passed other travellers.

It was one of the guards, searching out firewood on the third evening, who found the bleached bones of a horse, stretched out on a bed of heather. It still wore the remnants of a bridle and Boromir could see the ornamental rosettes on the brow-band with their swan boats. This had been the mount of one of the heralds, but he could not see any broken bones, any indication of what had killed the beast and that night their horses drank from the men’s flasks in case the local water, collected in clear, still, pools all around, should be bad. 

The next day and they refilled their flasks at a fast-running stream which flowed over a gravel bed and thence over a last fall into the sea. Boromir had knelt beside it, cupped his hand and scooped up water to taste. He had brought, more through instinct than design, the Steward’s staff with him and when he pointed the tip towards the water it had twisted in his hand and then planted itself mid-stream. The water felt cold against his palm and he drank gratefully, tasting it sweet and a little peaty.

The good water had been a welcome distraction because Boromir was beginning to become uneasy about this landscape, at once beautiful and bleak with no birds calling, no living sound but the whistling of the wind and the constant dull roar of the waves on the rocks. Imrahil had insisted that they carry some dry fuel with them and Boromir had ordered a peat fire built from their store that night, which men and horses huddled around.

Curiously, in this desolate place the path was now, if anything, a little clearer and coming over the top of one steep headland, he was cheered to see below and ahead a line of trees, which showed the colours of autumn, scarlet and gold. They were approaching a wood that seemed to grow up to the cliff edge and inland to stretch as far as the eye could see. Boromir did not think that this forest appeared on the maps, but then there was a good deal about this part of Elessar’s realm that was strange to him. 

This time, the bones of horse and rider were close together, a few steps away from the path. The man still clasped the reins in one hand, as though he had been leading his mount to safety, but of saddle or the herald’s gear there was nothing left. Boromir tasked the men with collecting the messenger’s bones and wrapping them in some cloth. They would collect them on their way back and return the man to his city, so that he might rest in dignity with his forefathers. In the meantime, he would go ahead, down to the forest to see whether their path carried on through it, or skirted the wood.

The guard straightened up from his task and pointed behind Boromir, who turned in his saddle to see that there was a wall of sea mist rolling in, a white curtain which was swallowing up the land before them, travelling slowly but inexorably, the forest trees disappearing and their path too. 

Boromir rode towards it on a loose rein. He knew that once they were enveloped, blanketed in the wet stuff, it would be possible to see the way again, albeit greyed. He found himself taking a deep breath of chilly air just before the haar swallowed them up, and watched intrigued for that moment when Cedar’s head and neck disappeared before him and then he was through the edge and enveloped in the cold air. It is thicker than sea mist, he thought, lifting a hand to close the neck of his jerkin.

It was Cedar’s first deep cough that alerted Boromir to danger and then he felt the bay shudder beneath him and all at once he was scrambling off the horse, turning him and urging him into a shambling trot for the half dozen strides that it took for them to leave the fog. The guards, who had seen their captain, disappear into the mist a few moments earlier ran to help him and all three men put their shoulders to the bay’s ribs to support him for anxious minutes as he coughed until trickles of blood ran from his nose. All the while Boromir stared at the wall of fog which now hung about the wood like a grey blanket but came no closer to them.

When the horse could stand unaided, Boromir had led him forward a few steps and sluiced his mouth and nose with clean water. Cedar shook his head and snorted and a few drops of bloody froth landed on Boromir’s cheek, where it stung until he wiped it away. He pulled gently on the horse’s ears and spoke softly to him and then, handing his reins to one of his guard, he began to unbuckle the saddle-bag and blanket roll. His men protested that he must not go on, that the fog was cursed, poisoned, but Boromir told them firmly that he would be safe and to move back to the top of the last ridge before making camp. 

Standing, listening to Cedar’s laboured breathing, Boromir had been thinking about those moments in the fog. He had felt it chill, but his breath had come easy and the wood he’d seen was alive with a wild harvest. All around him, there had been rowans laden with berries and bramble thickets studded with fruit and he had been holding on to the staff which was a tap root, and which he believed was protecting him, so he would go on.

He had left his guard with instructions to wait for no longer than the food would take them back to Edhellond and with a last pat for the bay, Boromir had walked slowly down the hill towards the wall of white. 

It was close about his face, wet and clinging, all but blinding him so that he had to feel for the flagstones beneath his feet, but there was no tearing at his throat and Boromir struggled on, leaning into the fog whilst moisture soaked his hair into rats’ tails and began to run on his neck, until finally he burst through into weak autumn sunlight and staggered to a halt, dazed and leaning on the staff. 

The path lay before him, shaded by great beech trees that formed a guard on each side. Up ahead Boromir could see an arch of living fire, where two copper beeches entwined their branches and there was golden light beyond from a clearing in the forest canopy. Dropping the saddlebag and blanket where he stood, he began to walk towards it and suddenly, framed in the arch, saw a child run across the space followed by a tall, graceful figure in elven robes, whose long hair caught the sunlight and glittered silver gilt...and Boromir knew why Imrahil had called on him.

When he stepped into the clearing, the child had stopped abruptly in his game, stared for a moment at this strange figure and then scrambled to hide himself behind the other’s skirts. Boromir planted the staff before him. The wood, each familiar knot and whorl, lay warm beneath his fingers and he tried a smile in answer to the open mouth and momentary panic in the eyes of the elf, except...

“Elphir,” he said, as gently as his voice would permit and knew that it creaked with the cold.  
“You came through the fog, cousin.”  
“Aye.”  
“You will be chilled, so cold.” There was a note of rising panic in the young man’s tone. “We must warm you through!”  
“I will do...”  
“No! No! We must hurry!” 

Elphir had Boromir’s elbow in an iron grasp and was propelling him across the clearing, over a carpet of leaves that rustled and towards what Boromir could now see was a pool of water. Steam arose from the surface and he judged that it must be fed from a hot spring somewhere. Elphir beckoned over the small boy. “Fetch cloths,” he whispered and bent to drop a light kiss on the child’s hair.  
Now they stood alone and Boromir knew that his cousin was studying the scars on his face.

“I will bathe, if you will bathe,” Boromir said quietly and after a moment, Elphir gave a brief nod and with one graceful gesture swept his hair up to secure it with a bone pin from his tunic.

Meanwhile Boromir was admitting to himself that he was aching to the marrow with cold and before he could think too carefully about it, he began to shrug himself out of cloak and below, tunic and shirt. He heard a faint gasp as the claw-marks on his neck and chest were revealed; did not look up, but busied himself in toeing off his boots, peeling off breeches and stepping gingerly into the water. It was hot, but not scalding and the shallows soon gave way to deeper water, so that he was able to submerge himself up to his chin, close his eyes, and concentrate for several minutes on the sting as blood returned to chilled toes and numbed fingers. The water slopped around his beard and he opened his eyes to see Elphir beside him, steam curling around the knot of hair at the nape of his neck. 

“Did my Father send you?”

Boromir bowed his head and Elphir closed his eyes.

“I am sorry for you, Boromir,” and he looked across at his cousin with real pain in his clear, grey, eyes, “for there is no way home. I do not know how you came through the bars of our cage, but there is no return. Not for you and not for any of us.”

The small boy had returned and placed a pile of linen cloth on the bank, before retreating to lean against a tree trunk and watch them.

“Your son?” Boromir asked.

“Alphros.” 

Boromir smiled again at the child, who gave a small grin in return and then ran off down the beech avenue. Alone with Elphir once more, Boromir saw no point in delaying delivery of his message.

“Prince Imrahil wishes you to know that there is music once more in Edhellond.” Boromir relayed the rest of the words as Imrahil had spoken them and saw a slow tear gather in the young man’s eye and slide down his cheek to mingle in the hot water.

Boromir stood, waded through the water to collect one of the towels and began to dry himself. His scars had long since begun to shrink and fade, but Boromir did not forget Celond’s instructions and patted his skin carefully around the worst of them.

“What creature did that damage, cousin?” 

“Warg,” Boromir replied and shrugged lightly. 

“And who cut you before?” 

Boromir knew then that his cousin had inherited eyesight that Legolas would have been proud of, spotting the faint silvered line on his belly, beneath the ragged claw marks. This was why Imrahil had called on him.

“Beorning,” he answered quietly, “who carried me homeward and nursed me well. I also have a son.” For a moment, he dropped the cloth and stood naked before Elphir’s gaze.

The next Prince of Dol Amroth looked gravely at him and then rose to his feet, whereupon Boromir realised that Elphir was still wearing a thin robe. The silk was dark, heavy with water and clung to his form; the high, rounded breasts and narrow waist, looked as though they had been carved out of some polished stone. Then Elphir pulled at the hem of his robe, dripping water down long legs, cupped his hand over his groin and lifted cock and balls aside.

“I had no need of a knife, cousin,” and he smoothed the silk again over his body as the child’s voice was heard coming back along the beech avenue, piping that he had the stranger’s bag and blanket.

The tale that Elphir told him was one that Boromir would once have dismissed as elvish cant, but now he understood that Middle Earth was a world righting itself after ages caught up in the struggle between good and evil. It was also a world within which the power of the Eldar was all but gone and an older magic was re-asserting itself quietly in the background of the new age of Men.

Elphir had ridden away from Dol Amroth sure that his father could never come to see him as other than a man weakened by a cruel flaw and had found sanctuary in this forest home. There was shelter here beneath the boughs and food a-plenty, fish and game and all the fruits of the forest. And he had not been alone for there were spirits alive in the wood. At first, Elphir had thought that the whispering voices he heard at his shoulder in the passing might have been Ents. He had never met Ents and the idea that this place was protected by the tree shepherds was a comforting one. Boromir, who remembered the Ents with gratitude, had never heard any of them do anything as quiet as whispering and it was not too long before Elphir had come to realise his mistake. These were creatures far older and trapped by their heritage, much as he was. 

A handful of the elves of Edhellond had stayed in their beloved forest, but they were gradually being taken in to the trees themselves. Some saw this as a good end but one or two fought the creeping roots about their limbs with anger and a determination to see their people continue as masters of the forest realm. These walked abroad on moonlit nights and Elphir, aching for the kindness of a simple embrace, had met one such and taken the comfort that was offered. He had been glad to see his elven lover even if only for a few hours, had rejoiced when his body quickened and seen the fierce joy of certain wood-elves when Alphros was born. 

But their forest home had gradually become a prison for the last of the elves would not let the child leave; he was their hope for the future, not wholly elven but with an old, old, bloodline to carry their heritage forward and although weakened, together they could raise the wall of burning fog to attack all who would reach them and to kill them if they should try to escape. 

“It is a walking-moon tonight,” Elphir’s voice was strained, “they will be angry that you have come unscathed through the haar...or perhaps its power is weakening? Perhaps they will let Alphros go if I will stay?”

Privately, Boromir doubted that they would be able to reason with creatures whose nature was caught up in such a battle for their lives, for if they lost, they would be swallowed whole so slowly that the thought of it made him shiver. 

Treebeard had told him always to remember his roots and now Boromir was looking around the clearing, counting the rowans, the wild roses, hung about with fat, red, rosehips and the bramble thickets, armoured in scarlet thorns.

“How far are we from the cliff edge?” he asked.

“A few paces, but you cannot climb down.” Elphir was pointing to a clump of white rowans.

Boromir began to walk quietly from tree to tree around the edge of the clearing and at each he set the tip of the Steward’s staff into the earth by a root and set his hand on the trunk. It seemed to him as though the wood was awakening, murmuring to itself, to him, and he answered “Come, together little sister, little brother.”

There was no perceptible stirring, except a breeze through the groves of mountain ash, but now he walked between the white rowans and found himself at the edge of a sheer wall so high that the sea spray breaking on the rocks below did not reach him, but the winds swirling about the edge almost rocked him on his feet. He did not know the proper call but made his plea aloud and the wind tore away his words as they came from his mouth; the promise he made silently in his heart was for his King alone.

That evening the men made a good fire at the edge of the pool and together watched the child as he roasted chestnuts. His questions to Boromir were all about Dol Amroth and once or twice Boromir thought he caught the shadow of Imrahil in a questing look. The moon would rise soon and Boromir could see Elphir’s gaze become more watchful. He had given Elphir his own blade and if it came to a fight would have no more than his staff and a flaming brand taken from the fire. 

The first cries came from the darkness beyond the firelight, waking the child who’d fallen asleep on Elphir’s lap and what had been calls to rise and greet the moon swiftly became cries of rage as the elves realised that their way was blocked. It seemed as though their anger was wakening the wind too, for a roaring began in the trees and at once they found themselves in the midst of a whirlwind of dry leaves that stung their faces.

Boromir lit torches and stuck them in the ground around the pool and now Elphir could see that in the darkness the rowans had formed a circle with brambles and dog rose woven between their trunks and winding about their branches to the very tops. Alphros was frightened, clinging to Elphir’s hand, and Boromir strode the edge of the circle, swinging a lit brand at any thin arm that shot out from the thicket of thorns. Once or twice he found his target and there was an anguished shriek and the arm shot back into the brake, but gaunt faces with sharp teeth were beginning to bite through the stems of the dog roses.

It was Elphir who saw the eagle wheel above them and cried out. Boromir glanced up and caught Meneldor’s eye as the great bird hovered for a moment and then swung away in the wind. The clearing was too small for Meneldor to land, but Boromir knew this Wind-lord of old.

“Can you trust me with your lives?” he shouted, snatching his sword from the young man’s hand.

Elphir nodded and Boromir scooped up the child and placed him in Elphir’s arms.

“Then run!” he cried, “run and jump!” and he pushed them towards the white rowans. 

He had barely time to hear Elphir’s shout of “Dol Amroth!” and the boy’s cry, when three figures emerged from the thorn-field and rushed at him. They seemed, to him, more like goblins than true elves, faces half covered in bark and moss, twisted with hatred, and where they did not carry swords, they trailed tree roots from their wrists that they used like whips.

Boromir was being driven back towards the cliff edge, slashing at roots that wound themselves about his ankles. Once a root caught his wrist, seemed to slither about the staff and with a roar Boromir wrenched it free, but he could feel his strength beginning to fail, so with a final swing of the blade he turned on his heels and plunging through the white rowans, ran and ran into the air, falling, falling, at last letting his arms spread wide and gazing on the starry sky as the sea grew louder in his ears.

The cold water over his head and the jolt, his ribs crushed in the eagle’s grasp as Meneldor plucked him from the foam, knocked the breath from him, so that when the eagle shortly dropped him on the heather, Boromir could do no more than gasp for some minutes. 

And so they found him, the guards camped on the ridge alerted by Prince Elphir, (and surely that was some kind of miracle) and a small boy who had suddenly emerged out of the dark and into the lit circle of their campfire. Privately the guards decided not to tell too much of this story, for they had plainly not set a good watch and their sergeant would give them a hard time if he came to hear of it. The Lord Steward, flat out on the heath, was soaked to the skin and he’d lost both saddlebag and bed-roll, but he still had hold of his sword like a good soldier and the old staff...for all the use that would be to him.

When Boromir rode up under the last gate and past the entrance to the palace stables, two grooms crossing the yard noted that he was not riding the old bay, but was mounted on a fine grey horse that looked as though it had come from the Dol Amroth stud. He was leading Cedar and privately both men thought that it looked as though the old horse was come to the end of his service, but even so the Lord Steward had ridden in to his own stable-yard with both beasts. As a groom came running across he slid off the grey’s back, handed his reins over and looping Cedar’s lead-rope over his arm, he led him towards his stall. Once there he saw that there was hay in the rack and fresh water. Cedar lipped at the hay, but then nudged him fiercely in the ribs.

“I suppose you’re wanting a drop more,” Boromir muttered and from out his jerkin he drew a small flask. He unscrewed the top and the big bay grabbed it between his teeth and threw his head back and forth a few times.

“It may be doing you a power of good, but don’t tell the King that Imrahil found a better use for his tonic.”

The horse dropped the empty flask and Boromir bent down to retrieve it from the deep straw. When he straightened up, Cedar blew a gusty sigh into his ear and Boromir found himself leaning against the horse’s neck chortling weakly, “Old socks,” he gasped, “just like old socks.”  
-oo0oo-

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks for this challenge - an intriguing one; 'Boromir!lives AU would be awesome. Polyamory is cool, people whose concept of gender is nonbinary is awesome, non-human relationships work too.' 
> 
> This story would fit loosely within the Cold Pressing AU, but was not written for it.
> 
> brahmir - seer


End file.
